FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

1

Ed's twenty-fifth birthday was going off without a…it was off to a great…well, it was happening.

“Give it a rest, Trix," he said. “I can't get it up."

“You can't, I can," Trixie unwound her lips from his cock long enough to say before diving back in like a snorkeler nosing through his crotch fuzz for rare coral. Her blonde hair, streaked pink, star-shaped glitter sprinkled throughout, draped over his belly, the curtains to her lewd magic show.

She was beautiful. The kind of girl people called voluptuous as a polite way of saying they wanted to fuck her silly and make her pancakes in the morning. It probably had something to do with her massive chest, or her massive ass, or, in Ed's case, the massively amazing way she sucked his dick without stabbing him with her tusks.

He let out a deep, pleasant sigh.

Dim lantern light made sparkling diamonds out of their sweaty veneer. They shared a musty bed in a cramped room salted by copulation, its sole window tarped over in a vain attempt to keep out high noon's voyeuristic heat. This unglazed window was on the opposite side of a wall-to-ceiling curtain partition dividing the room, neither muffling the jaunty din of packed taverns and fierce haggling outside. It was the kind of lively clamor where, if some stupid bitch started singing about all her merry little woes, they'd've been expected to stick their heads out and sing along.

Ed's toes curled in unison with her masterful dives into his pubes. Their only duet this afternoon were his deep moans backing her juicy lips smacking on him, his limp penis their unamused audience.

“Y-you don't know when t'quit," Ed panted.

“And you don't know when t'shut up," she countered sweetly and resumed working.

“Sorry…there's just too many, um, distractions."

Trixie uncorked her throat again. “Y'mean th'noise outside?"

“No."

“It's just us in here."

“Take it, bitch!" Masamune shouted from his side of the partition. “Take it, ya cheap slut!"

“I'm no cheap slut!" Ms. Danish, Trixie's mother, grunted between hot moans. Their bed frame creaked in a ceaseless wave of wooden complaints. Her mattress springs bounced them along like the tired arms of a regretful crowd.

“An expensive slut?"

“I ain't no slut, period."

“Funny, Lila! M'coppers in your purse 'n my cock in your cunt say otherwise."

“That's whore," Ms. Lila Danish said. “Whores do it for money, sluts do it for fun."

“You ain't havin' fun, eh?" Masamune performed some unseen trick that, from the sound of the older woman's moans, melted her into her bedsheets.

“Just us. That's th'problem," Ed groaned.

Masamune's rim lit shadow smashed atop Ms. Danish's like an obscene puppet show behind the partition. Ed grimaced. He pretended not to hear wet otter nuts dribbling off what sounded like a mound of jelly which, given Ms. D's pants size, wasn't far off. The topmost shadow delivered one last bodyslam thrust, seized, then flopped atop the lower one with an orgasmic death rattle of a sigh.

There was a pause.

One might've said you could cut the tension with a knife, but an undertone of incredulity in this silence elucidated that more than air was about to be gutted.

“You bastard," Trixie's mom eventually said, “you ain't wearin' a rubber."

“Don't worry," Masamune panted, “I ain't caught nothin' from screwin' ya for thirty years. Must've built an immunity—OW! Joke's on you, bitch. I'm into that!"

“Are ya into this?"

“What are you–oh. Oooh. OOOOOOOH! OW! Oh shit, yeah, right there. Do that again! OW! Fuck! Hey, wait, how come I don't hear nobody moanin' over there? I paid good money to hear Trixie gettin' her brains fucked out."

“His lay's free," Ms. Danish said, “I charged you th'usual bullshit tax. Happy Birthday, Eddy."

“T-thanks, Ms. D," Ed stammered.

“Tax? Th'fuck you mean, tax? Gimme my money back, cunt!"

“See if I'll let ya pull outta mine to go fetch it."

“Look, um," Ed said, then stopped when Trixie began trailing kisses up his belly until she draped herself over him. His hands hovered above her ass as her heavy tits plopped over his muscled chest. They stared at one another, nose to nose. He gaped, she batted lashes. Then she kissed him. Ed's mind liquified, forgetting unimportant things like his name, today's date, and where her lips'd been, under the steamy delight of their lascivious snog. The taste of her cherry chapstick certainly helped mask the taste of his nuts in her mouth.

Meanwhile, his cock, trapped between Trixie's thighs, wearing her lava-spewing pussy like a hood, patronized him with a faint twitch.

“C-can we have separate rooms or somethin'?" he said after she broke their kiss, several moments after he finished mouthing thin air. “I'd have a -lot- more fun with some privacy."

Masamune ripped the partition aside. Sweat moistened his graying pelt into a more vibrant shade the way a wash cycle revitalizes a dusty jacket. Unlike what'd happen with a good wash, his sweating also revitalized a powerful musk only headass perfumers could appreciate without clothespins. Scars fought for real-estate all over a body as ingrained with wrinkles as muscles, evidence that time and enemies failed to kill him for years.

He lay atop Ms. Lila Danish. She, a cougar born as a walrus, called herself Trixie's twin with the same self-confidence you'd get from avoiding full-length mirrors after your thirties. There was obviously a resemblance, one you'd need a time machine to see the most striking points of. Sometime around the invention of cobwebs, perhaps.

The mother-daughter whore duo wore matching uniforms whenever they worked together: damp birthday suits and seashell jewelry. Trixie's form swayed while hers sloshed; Trixie's figure filled where hers spilled. They worked under a kind of “buy-one-get-one-free" sales model, where most of the island fucked Trixie while Ms. D made herself A) available nearby and B) look like she didn't want to bite their clientele's dicks off. Still, Ed saw why the old man enjoyed fucking her. He'd've been a regular for anyone half as noseblind as her.

“What do y'need a whole 'nother room for? Ain't you ever jerk off with your pals? Piss side by side? Shoulder t'shoulder? Cross streams? This is th'same shit."

“One, no, two, it's just…weird! I can't get it up with you gruntin' in my ear!"

“It's been thirteen years," Masamune said, emphasizing each word with another thrust into Ms. Danish, who dutifully squealed like an overpaid porn star. “Y'shoulda gotten used t'my charmin' quirks by now."

“It hasn't been thirteen years," Ed said while covering his eyes.

Masamune's hips slowed to a contemplative pace, making himself look like a roid junkie body surfing a moaning, semi-gelatinous wave. “Sixteen?"

"Aaaaah..."

"Cold."

"Oooooh…"

"Fifteen?"

"Warmer."

"Eleven?"

"Fourteen."

“Fourteen years!" Masmaune belly flopped into Ms. Danish's pool of curves with renewed vigor. His cock plunged her loins. His white balls used her pussy the way sumo wrestlers use trampolines. She clung onto him and bellowed a deep, languished moan, barely heard under their joined chorus of moist slaps and wet squelches. Listening to them fuck was like putting your ear against a blender full of live squid.

“Where'd th'time go?"

“Wherever my sanity booked its one-way trip," Ed said.

Masamune stopped thrusting. “I remember how you used t'love bouncin' on my lap," he said to Trixie, looking her up and down. “Now I gotta pay to get ya t'do it. Ain't that somethin'?"

Trixie's expression explored the gulf between pleasantness and utter revulsion.

“Where's your son by th'way, Lila?"

“Wally ain't in today," Ms. D panted, “some sailors got him booked till tomorrow night."

“That's too bad. He's got your ass."

“Why don't ya keep fuckin' mine then?"

“Cuz his is fat 'n tight, 'n yours is like stickin' it in mashed potatoes—OW! Trix, get over here. Might as well get my money's worth if he ain't gonna do ya."

She blinked, repugnance fading as she compared Ed's and Masamune's dicks. One doughy and soggy, the other hot and ready. That one was currently buried to the root in her mother hadn't bothered her. At least that meant his worked properly, or that he was legally blind.

Ed blinked and she was in the other bed with them.

Masamune rolled onto his back, breaking the chain of cum tethering him to Ms. D's pussy as he pulled out of her. Mother stroked his slick, semen-lathered cock while daughter straddled him.

“Come to Papa," he said.

“Funny you should mention that," Ms. Danish cooed, tracing his scars with her free hand.

“Don't go startin' that shit up again you—"

Trixie chose that particular moment to let gravity take the wheel. Her soaked labia spread open around his oozing glans and crashed onto his scruffy crotch in an impact creamier than a milk truck collision. Air hissed through his fangs, a choked hose of a sound nearly muffled by her eager moaning.

Ed watched her pierced breasts bounce to the pace of the old man's hips breathlessly, but not nearly as much so and not for the same reasons as Trixie, who exchanged Masamune's perverted smirk with an energetic leer of her own, before leaving to get dressed.

2

You could only reach the Feral Islands by boat or airship, and Shanty Town if you flew pirate colors or your captain was committing suicide.

There were lots of ways to commit suicide in Shanty Town. Waving around a lot of cash, for example. Telling men throwing dice on street corners to go home and be family men would also do the trick. But the easiest, fastest, and most painful method in Shanty Town was attempting to port if you weren't a brigand, pirate, a smuggler, or, at the very least, a plucky adventurer biting off more than they could chew, which was its own kind of suicide but not as messy.

Shanty Town's island strip was to oceans what scabs were to a sugar-addicted child's knees. It was a necessity, an inevitability, a slapdash, marine-salvaged excuse of architecture more menaced by strong winds than sand castles.

Also, crusty on the outside and sticky underneath.

Some say the pirate haven got its name because it started out as a crude shack that never stopped getting built. Others claim its original name was lost to time, although people come close when they shout things that rhyme with “This shanty town!" over losing poker hands.

You'd get a full view of town from “The Peaks", the island's tallest apartments, if vertigo was your idea of a good time.

Market Square propagated illicit commerce north of there, beneath an intricate web of electrical wires and rag-hampered clotheslines. Everything from food, prostitutes, slaves, drugs, weapons and armor, electronics, and more were sold at the cut rate: discounts for locals, knifepoint muggings for new blood.

Raw materials were scavenged from Shanty Town's coastal beaches, part junkyard, part nautical backwash, or one of the four neighboring islands. Anyone sailing west brought guns. Lots of guns. And a war party. A priest too. And a wizard. And enough coffins for the wild animals populating the other islands to ship whatever parts they didn't use back in.

Shanty Town's amenities rivaled civilized cities, except in terms of stable infrastructures, law enforcement, safety regulations, and localized plumbing, but nobody paid taxes, so everyone agreed it was marginally better. No amount of professed lawlessness changed the intrinsic fact that every society had rules, even ones where foreign prince scammers set up their base of operations, and hacking streaming services was not only common, but openly encouraged.

The animals of Shanty Town didn't eat each other. They wouldn't lick drums of toxic waste, nor would they sink their teeth in ones that walked, talked, and probably had fleas.

They wore clothes, sometimes even pants.

They built homes designed to escape, not harmonize, with nature, except whenever nature called and it was too dark to find the chamber pot.

These factors forever tainted the island's reputation with their wild neighbors, which, when you were averse to soap and didn't brush after each meal because you couldn't afford real gold teeth, wasn't very good to begin with. Shanty denizens exemplifying wild animal stereotypes didn't help either, and one might've thought tribesmen and predators wouldn't care what necktied nine-to-fivers from overseas thought about them, until they were compared to people who unironically called themselves scalawags and scurvy dogs and found they couldn't cope with so monstrous a blow to their self-esteem.

Ed and Masamune, who'd've dressed like ditch diggers to the Pope's funeral, would've been suitable poster children for said stereotypes if their faces weren't already plastered on enough WANTED posters to account for last year's deforestation quota.

Ed trudged beside the old man, suspenders flopping like noodly arms at his sides, his teal neckerchief delegated to forehead mopping duty. Twin axes crossed in harnesses against his bare back. Both were freshly polished so their engraved names, Get Fucked and Or Else, broadcasted their vulgar edicts clearly to everyone behind him.

Masamune's drenched scarf and hat dried, and soaked, within his bag. He treated his katana, Moon Cutter at his left hip, Sun Reaver on his right, not as extensions of himself but as tools, except whenever he needed a back scratcher or if something rolled out of reach beneath heavy furniture. That they'd survived fourteen further years of abuse at his hands attested to their swordsmith's skill, and that some people treated sword warranties like a challenge. They'd've begged for a dentist if swords could speak, in contrast to Ed's axes, which would've asked for a bedtime story after being tucked into someone's skull.

None of the other scantily clad freebooters accosted them on their way toward Market Square. It was too hot for bounty hunting—hot enough to roast bones on the ground. Hot enough to deep fry lungs breathing too deeply. Hot enough to make the air above the menagerie of pedestrian brigands waver harder than gelatin in an earthquake. Besides, these were Masamune's stomping grounds. Everybody knew him, and that it would've been too hot to fuck with him even if they were climbing the Alps, during a blizzard, without a space heater.

“What's th'plan, old man?" Ed asked, his nose so glued to his portable gaming device that his button-mashing thumbs nearly gouged either eye. He didn't watch where he stepped. Animals who preferred not getting trampled simply got out of the way.

Masamune reached into his briefs to scratch his balls, and his hand came back like he'd dunked it into a warm vat of onion soup.

“Stow away on th'next boat outta this oven," he yawned, then briefly retched after touching his nose. “Fuck up anybody that catches us doin' it. Lila can't bitch about us bouncin' before givin' her a chance to run our pockets this time."

“I meant what are we gonna do about," Ed jerked, explosions chiming from his console, “money."

“We could find a hirin' quartermaster, sail off to someplace where nobody knows us, 'n put up adventurin' in favor of honest work."

Ed and Masamune glanced at one another before erupting with laughter so thunderous vendors started putting up their storm umbrellas. Animals around them gave them wider berths.

“No…seriously. We're broke, right?" Ed asked, giggling and wiping away tears.

“Like every flowerpot in Ma's shop I ever touched," Masamune heaved a jovial sigh, “that bullshit tax's no joke."

“And all th'rum," Ed reminded him.

“And th'rum," Masamune nodded.

“And th'reefer."

“...And th'reefer."

“Don't forget th'sushi buffet."

Masamune folded his arms, glaring sidelong. “I recall you drinkin' as much rum, smokin' as much reefer, 'n eatin' more than your fair share of my sushi."

“Our sushi," Ed said wryly. “I recall sweatin', killin', 'n bleedin' as much as you did for all th'gold I had no say in how you spent. I don't recall arguin' or fussin' about it either."

“Until now."

“I ain't fussin'," Ed said, “I'm tallyin' up th'bullshit tax."

“Masamune Kage!" someone said behind them.

All street clamor stopped deader than fossilized carrion, except for the sound of scurrying animals forming an anxious barrier. The only two people who called Masamune out and lived were Lila Danish and ignorant adventurers, and in the latter case it wasn't for long and nowhere near as fun to be collateral damage.

Everyone stared at the offending black wolf and his companion. He wore a blue cloak, a long loincloth, leg bracers, fingerless gloves, and a stupefied gaze at the crowd's sudden parting. His emerald eyes darted around, the finger he'd meant to tap Masamune's shoulder with hovered between them, twitching.

The cream-furred mutt beside him was regretting his choice of full plate to this afternoon sauna. He'd've stood about as tall as Ed if he weren't slouching under the weight of several bags, a claymore, and the sun using his armor like a skillet. Wavy bangs covered his eyes, but you could tell from his panting that they'd rolled too far back in their sockets to be useful anyway.

“I've…heard…many things about you," the wolf said, experiencing the difference between reciting lines to a mirror and a live, scrutinizing audience.

“So have they," Masamune said, caressing Moon Cutter's pommel.

Ed saved his game.

“You're wanted," the wolf said, steeling his resolve, “in five countries for murder, piracy, kidnapping, theft, terroristic threats, rape, assault—"

“And jaywalkin'," Masamune chimed, “don't forget that one."

“—and other atrocities. Your bounty's been doubled within the last five years. Twice. That's only considering bounties here on the Surfaceworld. Overworld authorities have their own bounty on your head. They want you alive for that airship hijacking. Dead, if the Melodious Omicron can't be recovered."

“They want me dead. Lost it over dominoes," Masamune said.

“I thought you only lost th'Scroll of Heldrax in that bet," Ed said.

“We kept playin' after you went t'bed. That's why I didn't have none of my clothes th'next mornin'."

“Underworld ambassadors," the wolf continued, “will pay the equivalent of any Surfaceworld bounty with sunken treasure for your corpse."

Masamune might've been concerned with all the schemy bastards rubbing their hands and snickering around them had several of them not run away, screaming, when he grasped Sun Reaver.

The wolf pulled his right cuff, never breaking their mutual glare. “You're worth a lot of money, old—"

“I'm sorry," the mutt panted. “I don't mean to interrupt, but did I hear the save tune for Ego 3: Eternal Retribution?"

“You did," Ed said, surprised.

“How is it? I haven't had the chance to buy it yet, can't even find a copy. You can buy torpedoes here, but you can't buy a seventy-dollar cartridge."

“It's great!" Ed beamed. “Heard it's been sold out for weeks after that preorder scandal. You can't even download it anymore, not that this piece of shit island's got good internet anyway. I was lucky enough to, um, 'obtain' my copy when I did. Had a few more, but I sold 'em already."

“What—" deep panting, “—a shame. Tell me this much: is it true that Ayashi becomes the protagonist after the prologue? I saw some buzz about that online, but I can't wrap my head around—" heavy wheezing, “—it. I'm appreciative of having her perspective as the focal point now, given what's established in the side novels, and more female representation in gaming is always a good thing, but Ego 2 ends on an unresolved cliffhanger. What's happening with Takumi in this game?"

“She is," Ed nodded. “Aya's hot as fuck. No complaints seein' her fox ass for a hundred hours. As for Taku, well—"

“AHEM," the black wolf said. Previously trepid spectators whose eyes weren't glazed over now squinted at them.

“In other words," Masamune growled at Ed through clenched teeth before smiling again at the wolf, “you're here t'collect on one of my many bounties."

“Lucrative as those prospects may be, I have other, SERIOUS, business to conduct," the wolf said, glancing at his sweating companion. “I want to hire you."

That Masamune didn't flatten on the spot was evidence that an adult male otter could successfully endure the crushing weight of intense disappointment.

“What's th'job?" he asked, hoping against hope this was the start of an elaborate, but entertaining, attempt on his life.

“I'd like to test your abilities first. You answer to Masamune Kage, and these…people, seem to believe you're Masamune Kage" the wolf said, pronouncing “people" with the same caution he'd use to pick up a used napkin, “but you look like an elderly codger with one foot in the grave and the other on a testosterone needle to me. No offense."

Masamune's grin twitched at the edges “None taken. I won't even get mad at you callin' me a badger. What kinda test we talkin'? I charge for demonstrations."

"A fight. Plain and simple. It's the quickest way to discern whether you're the real deal or another impostor."

Ed's brow rose. "Another impostor?"

"It's been a long few weeks," the wolf groaned.

"Sounds good t'me," Masamune said. "I've been itchin' for action all day, but you'll fight Ed."

"He will?" Ed asked.

Masamune put an arm around Ed's shoulders and leaned in close. “I don't trust myself t'keep our payin' customer in one piece," he said, waggling his brows. “Not in enough pieces t'pay us, anyway."

“Ed's stronger than any imposter you've met," he said to the wolf. “You're hirin' him if you hire me, 'n he ain't even half as good as me. That's like," he stopped to count his fingers, but not the damp ones because they were still smelly, “one 'n a half of a half for th'price of one!"

"I shall fight him, in that case," the mutt said, grabbing his companion's shoulder.

"Stowhart..."

"Brother, please. It's hot today. You might catch sun—" heavy panting, "—sun—", deep wheezing.

"Sunstroke?"

"Yes, that."

"You only want to fight him because he plays that stupid video game of yours."

"No!" Stowhart willed his tail to stop wagging. "Maybe a little."

"You sure you're not gonna get sunstroke, dude?" Ed asked. "I get worryin' about your little brother, but y'look ready to pass out."

"He's. The little. Brother," The wolf said through clenched fangs. "Vivifying as this discussion is, let's procure a more clandestine location. If I am to watch your ward fight in your stead, I'd much prefer solitude to this gawking pack of rapacious interlopers."

The wolf's words soared so far over everyone's heads that they now orbited the moon. "Procure" was a roadblock for many of them. Most stopped listening after "vivifying".

"I'm nobody's 'ward'," Ed said, grasping one of the few words he understood like a drowning swimmer. “Th'only time he'll ever have one is when I put him in a home."

"Aye," Masamune nodded, brows furrowed in withstanding his urge to throttle Ed before the wolf's brother had his chance. "I know th'perfect place."

3

A cloaked figure stood atop The Peaks' highest, well, peak. An urban summit only accessible via a network of precarious ladders that led window to window, roof to roof, a trek necessitating balance only an empty stomach could provide. Getting up there'd been easy. The real challenge was finding someplace to stand that'd look suitably dramatic and inconspicuous, which defeated the purpose of being on recon duty but Gods be damned if he wasn't gonna look cool while doing it.

He didn't stand on a sagging roof, a crumbling parapet, or even someone's windowsill, which all would've been suitably perilous but required him to touch surfaces with lots of questionable stains on them.

He stood on the tallet's flagpole on the tallest roof, his booted feet poised atop a smooth surface no wider than a tennis ball.

Anyone's jaw would've fallen off their face and melted through the floor upon seeing this amazing feat. Nobody in Shanty Town owned clean boots.

Standing up there, rather than incurring adoration from hypothetical witnesses, would've gotten him lots of sneers, heckling, and genuine questions on if he chose his dizzying vantage to see what it felt like to look someone in the eyes without standing on his toes.

It took a lot to impress people tolerating wizards and robots and dragons and elderly, drunken samurai. That last one may not sound impressive until considering one must survive being an elderly, drunken samurai in a world where getting takeout could've meant taking somebody out. Some might've said owning clean shoes didn't cut it either, until they needed a pickaxe to cut through the grime coating their soles after walking around Shanty Town.

It didn't help that the flag billowing beneath him, an advertisement promising free “Happy Endings" at Nami's Tangentially Tantalizing Tanning Parlor, was the only thing worth looking at up there.

The cloaked figure smiled, a gesture obscured by his collar and pointy hat.

He hated the view. And the flag. And that the fine print clarifying “Happy Endings" were free with any deluxe lunch combo purchase starting at three silver pieces, or eighteen bucks in certain wacky universes, was written in a serif font that clashed with the flag's otherwise consistent typography.

He smiled because mischief was afoot.

Accounting for people like Masamune, who'd've given their feet a wary look upon hearing that, let's specify mischief was happening.

The cloaked figure did a flip that would've gotten him gold if he'd done it off a diving board instead of his perch.

He also flew away at his flip's apex instead of falling to certain death, so that was alright. Sparks shot from his cloak like exhaust from a jet engine.

Hypothetical witnesses would've called him a showoff.

4

"Go easy on him. He got cucked for his birthday today."

"Someday," Ed said, glaring back at Masamune while drawing his axes in a twirling flourish mastered after many hours practice and scarred fingers, "I'll go easy on you by takin' a hammer to your dick instead of a potato ricer."

"Kinky."

Stowhart, grateful for their battleground's natural shade, said nothing, claymore in hand. His brother leaned against a nearby column, arms folded, examining their surroundings.

Wannabe merchant princes were as much a commodity in black market sanctums as the body bags holding them. Bored nobles flocked to places like Shanty Town to establish themselves as the next big crime lord of the sea like those in their favorite pirate novels. Life wasn't a pirate novel, not even a pirate-samurai novel. Gone were the days where one could rock into town in a fancy tailcoat and a funny hat, hire a lot of muscle, break a lot of knees, and be regarded as someone worthy of respect, but few hopefuls got the memo. Shanty Town's unification of rival powers to deal with these newcomers was called “The Great Climax" because, although life wasn't a pirate novel, those involved took great pleasure in enacting the gory fates of fictional crime lords on their aspiring emulators.

Only folks living near brothels took umbrage with the name, since having to clarify if they were recounting history or giving a review got tedious fast.

Later quarrels between Shanty's barons never escalated beyond monetary pissing contests, where peers in begrudged armistice outdid one another by spending their criminally begotten wealth on increasingly profligate ventures.

Sunrise Theater being one such example.

Named after its late financier Rubio Anatolí Ilíou, the outdoor structure emulated ancient Four Era amphitheaters. Terraced seats sloped downward, facing a raised stage framed by a high-backed wall and opposing rows of marble columns, between which a canvas roof was tethered. The theater was built facing eastward, allowing sunrise's myriad hues to tint its white stones in a display of natural beauty that also cut paint costs. Time long since had its way with Rubio's vision, but not as roughly as the sun did with his actors, who all died penniless and in sore need of an optometrist. Today, the dilapidated theater served as a quiet spot for young vagrants and, in this case, two men to beat the shit out of each other. You'd only see myriad hues tinting Sunrise's begrimed stones with a black light.

"Be careful," Masamune said. "He's with th'Order of Ashright."

"Order of Ashright?" Ed asked.

"Y'kno th'Ashright Kingdom. Th'Order is a branch of their military for carvin' new turf outta th'Wilds. It's where they send ya if y'don't make Royal Guard, or World Navy. They're led by knights too sword happy to retire peacefully, 'n too old to fight anybody more threatenin' than a naked savage wavin' around spears. Got mercs 'n adventurers on their payroll too, but that mutt ain't low grade. He's th'real shit."

"Careful, old man. You'll blow your back out takin' a dump that big." Ed said. "How do you know all that?"

"They both have Ashright accents. Th'big one ain't wearin' th'proper uniform, but he's wearin' th'colors. Silver armor. Blue garments," he said while rubbing his nose. "Look at his claymore's pommel."

Ed did.

"That's th'Order's insignia. Probably forgot to cover it up. Plus, he just plain looks like somebody born to shout 'Halt, Knave!' don't he?"

"I mean where'd you learn it from? You only read papers if it's got underwear ads."

"And th'funnies!" Masamune added testily. "I do more than get drunk off my ass in bars."

Ed nodded. "You hurl a lot too."

"I listen. I keep my eyes 'n ears open. We run in th'same circles, go to th'same places. You'd've known all that yourself if ya kept your nose outta that damn game long enough."

"I'll remember t'ask for your gleaned wisdom next time I find ya suckin' face with another gutter." Ed said, stepping toward Stowhart. "So, how do you wanna—"

Stowhart lunged his blade at his heart. Ed barely recovered after dodging to the side when the mutt halted mid-thrust, turned, and swung his sword at him again. He ducked, a slicing gust taking several of his hairs with it.

That heavy armor 'n big ass sword ain't doin' shit ta keep him off my ass! Ed growled inwardly. He rose sharply, slamming Get Fucked's pommel into Stowhart's chin with a sound like a muffled gunshot.

Open for a headshot, Ed thought, muscle memory nearly coaxing him into chopping his opponent's face off as he staggered back.

Knock him out, keep him alive. Th'old man's still bitchin' about our last unhappy employer. How th'fuck was I supposed ta know they put prunes in th'guacamole? Who does that?

Ed twirled Or Else around as he charged, thrusting its blunt end at Stowhart's forehead.

CLANG!

Ed jerked backwards, wondering how Stowhart managed to fit a metal plate under his pelt until realizing he'd blocked his attack by lifting his sword with a reverse grip. He followed this up with another fluid grip change before launching a wide, horizontal slash. Ed hopped backwards, sucking in a decade's worth of fatty meals and hoping he didn't land wearing his guts like a belt.

"I thought I had you that time," Stowhart panted, "you're rather light-footed for someone of your size.

"You're a fuckin' jumpin' bean yourself," Ed said, smirking despite his gut feeling like a wrung towel. “Sorry bout your chin. I would've went for your shins if y'weren't wearin' all that armor."

Stowhart approached him from the side. "Don't worry about it, I'd rather have a bruised chin than a missing foot."

"You might've gotten me by now if y'weren't wearin' all that armor," Ed said, circling him in the opposite direction.

Stowhart grinned companionably. Canine faces were naturally lovable like a reptile's was naturally listless and judgemental. He imagined Stowhart grinning like that if he'd managed to disembowel him a moment ago.

"Maybe, but I feel naked without it," he said.

"Oven roasted too I'll bet, but you're holdin' up. That cuz of your trainin' with th'Order?"

Stowhart and his brother, whose hitherto cold stare had more in common with lizards than wolves, gaped with alarm.

"How could you possibly know I'm with the Order?"

Ed relayed everything Masamune'd told him with the smug satisfaction of knowing the old man wouldn't say—

"I told 'em all about it," Masamune said after he'd finished.

"You just couldn't let me sound cool, huh?" Ed grunted back at him.

"Quit tryin' ta sound cool 'n kick his ass already. Oop, here he comes now."

Ed ducked to the right, dodging an overhead slash that obliterated the stage where he once stood. Dusty splinters flew up in an asthmatic plume so thick that Ed almost didn't see Stowhart's arm fling in his direction. It was only thanks to his twitch reflexes, sophisticated over the course of dozens of ninja movies, that he lifted both axes in time for the throwing knife to bounce from instead of embedding itself in his chest.

"I thought I had you that time!" Stowhart said, sucking his fangs with playful disappointment.

"Ed," Masamune called from behind him, his voice cool, calm, like the air before a huge blizzard or whenever they argued over who called dibs on the last beer. A street performer happened to be playing a string instrument nearby. They sucked major cheeks, and probably weren't getting any tips, but their screechy facsimile of music bestowed his voice with a kind of severe elegance.

"Quit stallin'."

“You're th'one who told me to go easy on him," Ed said without looking away from Stowhart.

The music stopped after a shrieking lamentation of chords. Somebody'd given the performer a tip after all.

“You're makin' me look bad," Masamune hissed.

“So you want me to try now?"

“Yes."

Ed faced his blades toward Stowhart.

“No," Masamune said, “don't try that hard!"

“Th'fuck you want me to do?" Ed asked, finding it increasingly difficult to glare at Stowhart while snarling over his shoulder.

“Do like…sixty percent of your power. Practical with a bit of flare. Refined, but deadly."

“Sixty percent?"

“Sixty percent."

He considered this.

“What th'fuck is 'sixty percent of my power' supposed t'mean?" he asked before narrowing his eyes. “You've been playing with th'caculator on my Shift again, haven't you?"

“Look," Masamune said, attempting to channel whatever repose he'd attained while that shitty music was playing, but it just wasn't the same so he gave up. “Just make it happen. You've got final say on drinks next time we're out."

Ed perked. “I choose th'alcohol."

“Aye."

“And th'brand."

“Aye."

Ed, emboldened by Stowhart patiently wondering what was going on, looked back at Masamune. “Tankards 'n bottles only."

Masamune's whiskers drooped then bristled higher in unison with his growling. “Deal!"

That'd flipped the switch.

His breathing deepened, his stance widened. Everything in the world that wasn't Stowhart, scents, noises, ideas for quirky builds to try on a new game plus file, were brutally extirpated, collateral damage of the laser sight he trained on him.

Stowhart, confused as he was moments prior, hyper focused too. Not thanks to some internal unlocking of potential, but because the rest of the world tended to run away whenever a large bear mean-mugged you.

Both men waited for a sign. The sign.

It could've been a loud noise from outside, or a loose plank falling into the wooden crater Stowhart made. Their senses were so high tuned that their sweat, falling in overly dramatic slow motion before hitting the ground, the camera gradually spiraling around it and getting closeups of their reflections for some reason, could've done it. Or they could've stood there, waiting for the next five minutes with neither moving an inch.

Thankfully, that didn't happen.

Their signal, whatever it was, came and went. They sprang simultaneously.

Ed followed Stowhart's swing as though he moved through a tank of molasses. He sidestepped and caught the blade above its cross guard with the crook of his right hand axe. A flex from his bicep stopped the dog's forward momentum with a brick wall's finality, making him stumble backwards, leaving him open.

Ed swung his left axe, its blade careening at Stowhart's head.

Dammit! He said sixty percent, sixty! Choppin' a dude's head off has gotta be, like, eighty-five at least, right? Ed had time to think before a large rock spike shot up between them, breaking his flow and throwing him backwards.

Stowhart fell back too, hitting the ground with a noise like a limp-wristed gong smack.

"Lain! Why did you interfere?" he shouted at his brother, whose left hand pointed toward them. Two fingers swiped downward and the spike receded beneath the stage whence it came.

Masamune didn't know whether to whistle at this display or pull his last remaining hairs out over Ed almost butchering their cash cow.

"I'm satisfied with the demonstration," Lain said without acknowledging his brother's growls. "I will hire you both."